Long Distance Steele
by kgmohror
Summary: Set after S3 "Illustrated Steele." Steele and Laura are spending a week apart, each doing what they find most satisfying. So why aren't they having any fun?


Laura took another bite of lukewarm pizza, wrinkled her nose and dropped the remainder back in the grease-stained cardboard box. Looking down at it, she experienced a feeling almost like déjà vu. How many nights had she spent just like this: bundled in an old bathrobe, surrounded by manila file folders, munching on lousy take-out.

It wasn't quite the same, of course. Plenty had changed in the almost three years since she'd stopped making a habit of bringing work home. Back then she would have been curled up on the couch in the cozy living room of her old house, not the open and airy lounge area of her loft apartment. And there would have been many fewer files around her; the agency's caseload had more than trebled since then, a growth she had to attribute – in part, at least – to the high profile of her fantasy-turned-reality partner. She smiled at the thought of her Mr. Steele, who so relished his role as L.A.'s most celebrated and successful private investigator. To be honest, it had long since ceased to be merely a role; the formerly slightly hapless ex-con man had evolved into a damned good detective. And Laura, to her infinite surprise, was proud of him.

Gazing around the quiet apartment, Laura was struck by one more difference between Laura Holt, circa 1982, and the 1985 version of herself: The old Laura would never have felt so … lonely.

It seemed absurd that her life should feel so much emptier this evening than it would have three years ago. But of course you don't miss what you've never known, she reflected wryly. Back then her life was all about this – her work, the agency – and it wouldn't have occurred to her that there was room for anything or anyone else. That she would one day begin to feel that a fulfilling life might include more than a successful career and hard-won independence.

Sighing, she scooped up the scattered folders and shuffled them into a neat pile on the coffee table. Somehow she couldn't seem to concentrate on business tonight. Nero hopped down from his place beside her and strolled sinuously toward the kitchen and his waiting food dish. Laura hoisted herself out of the armchair with some difficulty and reached for the crutch that leaned against the side table. She hobbled across the room and pulled a can of Friskies from the cupboard.

Steele came into the chalet, stamped the snow off his boots and tossed his key into a bowl on a side table just inside the door. Shrugging off his ski jacket as he crossed the rustic great room on his way to the kitchenette, he glanced at the clock above the stone fireplace.

10:30.

"You're getting old, mate," he muttered to himself. There was a time – not so long ago – when he would have strolled in much closer to dawn … and certainly not to his own room. It was almost embarrassing.

To be fair, it wasn't as if he didn't have other options. Not half an hour ago he was in the lodge bar, being vigorously chatted up by a very hot blonde. She was tall, leggy, curvy in all the right places. Exactly his type. Except … her eyes were hazel, not brown, and the glint in them seemed hard and predatory, not soft and warm. And her bleached hair, modishly cropped and sculpted with sufficient product to defy gravity, had a garish gleam instead of a soft luster. He couldn't be sure what was underneath a fairly heavy application of foundation on her perfectly symmetrical face, but he was pretty sure he wouldn't find a sprinkling of freckles there, or anywhere on that flawless, alabaster body.

Still … she was more than attractive, and it had been a long time since he had enjoyed the undivided and unalloyed interest of a desirable female. Especially over the last few months, since Laura instituted that ridiculous Cannes "agreement," he had had no outlet for his naturally … erm, _passionate_… nature. There were times, when she looked at him in that way of hers, or tossed her luxurious hair over her shoulder, or even pursed those delicious lips in vexation at him, when he thought he would go mad wanting his arms around her, her soft, sweet-smelling body close against his.

Putting some distance between himself and that torture was the real reason he'd planned this trip in the first place. Even though there had been the beginnings of a thaw in their relationship recently (he smiled at the memory of that steamy smooch in Laura's loft; his bruised ribs had hurt like hell when she pulled herself tight against him, but it was _sooo_worth it), Steele had decided that a week in a snowy climate might – ahem – cool him down a bit. The last thing he wanted was to sabotage their fragile détente by coming on too strong … and he didn't trust himself not to.

He was therefore equal parts astonished and, frankly, unsettled when Laura declared herself ready to accompany him. He didn't believe her, of course … not until she started waving things like plane tickets and chalet reservations around. It couldn't be that easy: after almost three years of foreplay, surely Miss Holt wasn't going to surrender the field on the basis of a dare! If he'd known that, he would have challenged her ability to enjoy herself the day they'd met. And yet, when it came down to it, when the very real possibility of consummating his relationship with Laura was staring him in the face – he discovered he didn't need a change of altitude to contract a severe case of frostbite. As Laura had so triumphantly pointed out, the hot-blooded Mr. Steele had cold feet.

It was enough to make a man question his mojo! And so when that so very luscious young barfly – Mindy, was it? – perched her delightful derriere on the stool next to him and introduced herself … well, it was only polite to buy her a drink. Steele prided himself on being a gentleman, after all. And after one or two drained highballs, she leaned in close to him, idly fingered the front of his sweater and whispered an invitation in his ear … and he heard himself saying, "Thanks, but it's been a long day."

Now, as he poured himself a glass of milk from the fridge, Mr. Steele wondered what the hell had happened to him. This wasn't exactly how he had intended to spend his vacation.

This wasn't exactly how she had intended to spend her vacation, Laura thought, juggling a glass of milk in one hand and her crutch in the other as she made the wobbly journey upstairs to her bed. Nero was already there, purring contentedly and using a paw to clean a few remnants of tuna from his whiskers.

"Don't look so smug," she scolded him. "You've got four good legs."

If it hadn't been for that unfortunate tumble down the stairs of Ray Kelly's creepy castle, Laura would be in Aspen right now, enjoying a quiet dinner in the ski lodge with Mr. Steele or – she glanced at her watch – more likely stretched out before a blazing fireplace in their rented chalet, tired yet exhilarated from a day of downhill runs, snuggled up together and …

Laura's face flushed as her thoughts became as steamy as the mugs of hot-buttered rum she imagined them toasting one another with. She wondered, suddenly, if at that very moment some snow bunny was filling the place in Mr. Steele's arms that should have been hers. Of course, whether Laura would have taken advantage of the opportunity to get "cozy" with him in Aspen remained an open question, much as she hated to admit it. She'd assured herself she was ready … but she'd told herself that plenty of times before.

Really, she should have known fate would intervene to keep them apart. Laura sometimes wondered if the uncanny parade of coincidences and distractions that had prevented her and Mr. Steele from becoming lovers was some kind of sign that it simply wasn't meant to be.

The trouble was, she so much _wanted _it to be.

Laura hadn't truly appreciated how much her closeness to Mr. Steele meant to her until the past few months under the "Cannes Agreement" had kept him at arm's length. Cannes had been a rash and – she could admit it now – stupid decision. Irrationally, she felt a niggling resentment against Mr. Steele. True, it had been her idea to put a hold on their relationship … but she didn't really expect him to agree to it so readily! Thank God for those few times when he had "overstepped the mark," as he put it. The truth was, disengaging her feelings for her partner had proven much more difficult and complicated than she'd imagined. Even apart from a few heart-pounding, toes-curling kisses in London and Ireland, there were those little, everyday intimacies that had become a habit over the past three years. It was second nature for her to touch him lightly on the arm, adjust his tie, sit close against him in the back of the limo. So automatic were these gestures that she didn't even realize she did them … until Mr. Steele's infuriating, irresistible grin reminded her she was breaking her own rule.

Like her weakness for chocolate, it seemed her addiction to Mr. Steele could only be conquered by total abstinence. And the past two days had shown her that wasn't an option.

She missed him.

It occurred to her that this was the longest the two of them had been apart since … well, at least since Murphy and Bernice had left the agency. They saw each other every weekday at the office, and there seemed always to be some black-tie affair or stakeout to bring them together on the weekends, even during the freeze. Mr. Steele had become inextricably woven into the fabric of her life. His absence from it now left her feeling restless, incomplete.

She was also feeling a little guilty. Sending Mildred along with Mr. Steele to act as an unofficial chaperone was childish, she knew. Especially since she could make no real claim on her partner's fidelity, even now that the Cannes Agreement was at least in flux, if not exactly null and void. She knew only too well how attractive he was; Laura could easily recite a litany of accommodating women who had been more than willing to give Mr. Steele what he wasn't getting from her. There was Nadine (that peroxide piranha!) and a bevy of transitory babes who had occupied his time before he and Laura became more than colleagues – Gayle, Sheila, Susan, Mary, Doris, Dedra, Marie, Miss Taplinger. There were the old lovers like Felicia and Anna Simpson (perhaps the only woman who had a claim on his heart as well as his body). And there were newer temptations like Millicent Fairbush, Giselle Lebret, Margaret Cable, Gwen Whitewood, the "very sweet, very willing" Eloise Fairchild and, most recently, that nubile Amazon, Miss Dalrymple*.

Laura had no idea how many of these Mr. Steele had slept with, though she liked to imagine he hadn't been with anyone during the period when the two of them had been more or less dating. Since Cannes, though, he was - like the royal lavulite that brought them together in the first place - fair game. And he was hundreds of miles away from her tonight, in a glamorous, romantic setting no doubt crawling with females on the make for just such a valuable asset as Mr. Steele. Unbidden, her mind produced an image of him on a luxurious, King-sized bed, tussling with the evening's conquest …

Sitting on the edge of a luxurious, King-sized bed, Steele tussled with the narrow neckline of his sweater, dragging it over his head and throwing it on a nearby chair. Though he'd made only a few runs down one of the less challenging slopes – in fact, he was only a middling skier, despite his boast of shussing in the Alps with "Jean-Claude" – Steele was curiously weary. Funny how he could maintain a breakneck pace and withstand all manner of physical altercations while chasing down leads with Laura, but a couple of solitary trips down a ski trail and he felt tired all over. Perhaps it was because skiing didn't offer the kind of adrenaline rush he had become accustomed to while in Miss Holt's company.

Steele padded into the bathroom and turned on the hot water in the shower. Discarding the rest of his clothes and stepping into the stall, Steele let the hot water stream over his head and down his torso. He wondered what Laura was doing. Paperwork, probably. Or perhaps out with friends. He'd been genuinely startled to discover, a few weeks ago, that Laura had a social life outside the time she spent with him. He scowled, recalling the unctuous accountant she'd met at some party while the Cannes Agreement was in full force. Another pencil pusher! It galled Steele that Miss Holt could have her head turned by specimens of milquetoast like Wilson Jeffries and Bill Smith, when a virile, passionate man like himself was yearning – positively pining! – to give her the full benefit of his experience and not inconsiderable skills.

Seriously, what did these blokes have that he didn't?

Stability. Respectability. Plodding consistency. Steele snatched up a bar of soap and began scrubbing his chest vigorously. Fine. If that's the kind of man Laura Holt was looking for, it was no skin off his nose. He wasn't tied to this life, after all. In fact, he was doing her a favor by staying and maintaining this charade for … good God, going on three years now! He could walk out any time, leave her to find the kind of man she desired. Taking a deep breath, Steele bowed his head and watched the water swirl around his naked toes.

_He_wanted to be the kind of man Laura Holt desired.

Not an accountant, of course. Even the few hours a week that Laura corralled him in his office and made him sign paperwork was enough to drive him stir crazy. He couldn't be one of those nine-to-fivers who processed like lemmings from bus stop to office building every morning and back again every afternoon. But surely that wasn't really what Laura was looking for in a partner. A woman so gloriously alive, so positively glowing with energy and spirit and strength – such an exquisite creature could never be content with a life of middle class mediocrity.

Steele knew perfectly well what Laura wanted: honesty and commitment. He flashed back to a time not long ago. He was tied to a chair, bruised and bleeding. A woman – Grace Kelton – was standing before him. She raised her arm to strike another blow. Only suddenly it wasn't Grace Kelton, it was Laura. She was angry, driven to violence by his unwillingness to tell her how he felt. Steele was still shaken and mystified by that pain-induced delirium. In his right mind, he couldn't even imagine Laura inflicting torture on anyone, least of all someone he believed – well, hoped, at least – she cared for. But whatever the source of his vision, it had forced him to confront a truth more terrifying to Steele than all the Palermo Brothers and Major Descoine combined.

He loved her.

Indeed, he suspected he'd always loved her … or since very near the beginning of their association, at least. Why else would he pass up the opportunity to pursue the royal lavulite collection once it passed out of her protection? He'd spent the better part of a year planning that heist. And why, after one brief, fairly chaste kiss on a pier at the marina, had he never seriously looked at another woman again?

Most importantly, why, having come to this frankly earth-shattering realization about his feelings for Laura, couldn't he just come out and TELL her? It seemed so simple, theoretically. He would pull her close, gaze into her beautiful brown eyes and whisper, like Cary Grant in "Suspicion," that he adored her. And she would throw her arms around his neck, kiss him passionately and answer, "I love you too, Mr. Steele."

Unless she didn't. That was the crux of the matter, wasn't it? As sure as Steele was that he worshipped Laura with as much passion as any man had ever felt … deep down he wasn't sure she felt the same. If she did, why hadn't _she_said it first? If she did, how could she put the barrier of the Cannes Agreement between them. And if she really loved him, surely she would appreciate how the past few months had tormented him, even more than the slaps that his hallucinatory Laura had inflicted with such relish.

Steele stepped from the shower and toweled himself off, chagrined by his uncharacteristic insecurity. He was a grown man, but somehow this aggravating, amazing woman had the power to make him mope around like a lovesick teenager. It was just idiotic!

It was just idiotic, this moping around like a lovesick teenager, Laura thought. Hampered by her sprained foot, she'd managed with some difficulty to get into her pajamas and crawl into bed. Now she lay with her legs contorted awkwardly around the coiled form of Nero, who obstinately refused to relinquish the center of the mattress. Determined not to spend any more of the evening fretting over what Mr. Steele might be up to, she reached into the drawer of her bedside table for her customary nighttime reading material, a weighty tome titled _The BIG Book of Movies_.

Boning up on cinematic trivia had become a nightly ritual. She'd started this new form of "homework" about the same time she stopped bringing home paperwork. In the beginning, her purpose was to acquire enough general knowledge to decipher what Mr. Steele was blathering about when he spouted his plot summaries and production stats. It wasn't long, however, before she'd realized that the history of Hollywood's Golden Age was actually quite fascinating and could serve up some genuine insights useful in their work. There was also the added benefit of seeing her partner's eyes light up with delight when she produced a film reference of her own to suit the occasion.

The thought of those blue eyes reminded Laura of another item she kept tucked out of sight in the drawer. She fumbled under a box of bobby pins and a few stray styrofoam curlers until her fingers found the corner of a picture frame laying facedown at the bottom of the drawer. She carefully – almost surreptitiously – pulled it out.

Laura couldn't help the trace of a smile that formed as she looked at the 8x10 image in the frame. It was a candid shot of Mr. Steele, taken by Mildred at one of the impromptu victory celebrations they often held at the conclusion of a case. He was grinning and holding a champagne flute aloft in a toast. His eyes sparkled with humor and affection as he gazed slightly downward and to his right. Laura knew he'd been looking at her, standing just out of frame with her own glass raised. She would never admit how much it pleased her that it was she who made him look that way … or how often she'd agonized over how much significance to place in the warmth of his smile. Laura knew Steele wanted her, she believed he cared for her. But was there something deeper, more lasting behind the glow in those blue eyes?

She suddenly laughed out loud, startling Nero out of his cat nap. "Bad news, buddy," she said, ruffling his ears affectionately. "I'm afraid your formerly sane and rational mother has gone round the bend." A scene from an old movie Mr. Steele had taken her to flashed through Laura's mind: an adolescent Judy Garland warbling "You Made Me Love You" to a fan magazine photo of Clark Gable. Thank God Mr. Steele wasn't here to see this foolish giddiness he brought out in her. Resolving to reclaim her dignity, Laura set the photo on the bedside table, picked up the remote and clicked on the TV. Then she opened _The BIG Book of Movies_ and began to read.

Steele picked up the remote and clicked on the TV. Unfortunately, the reception was as snowy as the winter wonderland outside the chalet. Sighing, he clicked the set off and picked up the book lying beside him on the bed: _Practical Investigative Techniques_. It was a weighty tome, and almost as dry as the ham-and-cheese sandwich he'd gotten from a vending machine in the lodge on his way out. Mr. Steele was convinced he could learn more from any Jimmy Cagney movie than he'd get out of this text, but Laura was a by-the-book girl – and he was determined to show her he took their work seriously.

_Their_ work. Steele smiled at the thought. He'd had many associates – well, more accurately _accomplices_– over the years. His relationship with Daniel Chalmers was the longest and closest … yet even with Daniel, Steele had always considered himself a solo act. Yes, there was honor among thieves, but there was always a risk in letting anyone get close, sharing too much. Steele had learned to keep his cards very close to the vest, showing his hand only when there was the promise of something more valuable in return … and always keeping one ace firmly tucked up his sleeve.

Miss Laura Holt, on the other hand, had the disconcerting habit of putting all her cards on the table. From the day they'd met she had been direct and forthright about what she wanted, what she expected from him professionally and personally. Her candor, along with her stubborn adherence to her convictions, both unnerved and tantalized him. As they'd worked together side by side as not-quite-equal partners, Steele found himself sharing parts of himself that no one else had known. She had seen him scared, angry, confused, vulnerable. She had also seen him excited, amused, proud … contented. And that, frankly, was something even _he'd_never seen before.

In defiance of all expectations, the former footloose con man discovered he loved this new life. Loved waking up each morning in Remington Steele's luxury apartment, loved walking into an upscale office suite with "his" name on the door, loved hearing Mildred's cheery "Morning, Chief!" Most of all, he loved the rush of exhilaration he felt when Laura strolled or stomped or sauntered into his office, snatched the morning paper out of his hand and declared, "Time to work for a living, Mr. Steele."

True, he had often scoffed at Laura's nose-to-the-grindstone diligence. He'd needled and cajoled her to take a break once in a while, and on those few times he'd succeeded (a delightful day in the park sprang to mind), he believed it had done her a world of good. Nevertheless, he had come to appreciate – and share – her dedication to Remington Steele Investigations. What they did _mattered_. Against that, dallying in a snow-covered fantasyland felt hollow and pointless. In truth, after only three days away, Steele was positively homesick.

Unable to concentrate, he tossed _Practical Investigative Techniques_aside and stared up at the ceiling, wondering again what Laura was doing tonight.

He missed her.

Unable to concentrate, Laura tossed _The BIG Book of Movies_aside and stared up at the ceiling. She toyed with the idea of opening the office in the morning, taming her restlessness by fielding calls and cases on her own until Mildred and Mr. Steele returned. She'd worked solo before, but somehow the role of independent investigator no longer felt right. She was used to bouncing ideas off Mr. Steele, talking through the details of their game plan, bickering over divvying up the legwork. Working alone would be more productive, more efficient … and a lot less fun. "I'm looking for a temporary partner, Nero," she said to the cat. "Do you have any stakeout experience?"

Just then the bedside phone rang. Laura glanced up at the clock, and was faintly alarmed to see it read 12:45.

"Hello?" she said quickly.

"Laura?"

She recognized the clipped accent. "Mr. Steele! What's going on? Is something wrong?"

"Uh, no. Everything's fine." She heard confusion in his voice. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, I didn't expect to hear from you … um … at this hour …"

"Oh, I-" He hesitated, and she guessed he was looking at his watch. "I'm sorry, Laura," he blustered. "I had no idea it was this late."

"Just getting in? Must have been a big evening." Laura tried to keep her tone light. She wondered if he was drunk. At least he was alone … presumably.

"Ah, I've been in for a while," he answered vaguely. "Want to hit the slopes early tomorrow, you know."

"You're having a good time, then?"

"A good time? Oh, yes. Of course. Of course! Nothing like the invigorating mountain air and excitement of the downhill chase to get one's blood pumping, eh?"

"I'm glad," she said, not very convincingly. "Pumping … er, blood … is good. Aerobic fitness is important."

"Absolutely. You know me and exercise – can't get enough of it."

Laura laughed, and he joined her. "And is Mildred enjoying herself, too?"

"Are you kidding? We may never get her back in the office!" His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "Seriously, Laura, I think we may have to institute a morals clause into her contract."

More laughter.

"Do tell! What has the scandalous Miss Krebs been up to?" Laura asked.

"Let's just say it involves a Nordic ski instructor named Sven. Six-foot-three, blond hair, tightest ski pants I've ever seen."

"Well, Mildred always has made friends easily," Laura chuckled. "What about you, Mr. Steele? Met any interesting … people … on the slopes?"

"Not really," he responded honestly. "Usual crowd of superficial, pampered glitterati one sees at places like this all over the world. The faces change, but the overall effect is the same. I will say there's a bit more silicone on display here than I remember. It's a wonder some of these young ladies can remain upright."

"Perhaps remaining upright isn't their objective."

"Why, Miss Holt! You shock me." Steele felt himself grinning like an idiot, and wondered if Laura could tell at a distance of 1,000 miles. Suddenly remembering the lateness of the hour, he asked, belatedly, "You weren't asleep when I called, were you? Sorry if I woke you."

"No, I was still awake. Just reading and watching an old movie on TV."

"Oh? What's on?"

Laura glanced at the screen. "My Man Godfrey."

"Hmmm. William Powell or David Niven?"

"Powell."

"Good girl. The remake isn't worth your time."

"Well, it's hard to beat William Powell and Carole Lombard."

"Indeed, Miss Holt. I begin to have real hopes for you as a connoisseur of fine art."

"I owe it all to you, Mr. Steele."

Silence for a moment, as both smiled into their receivers.

"I suppose I'd better let you finish watching the movie," Steele said at last.

"And you need your sleep if you're going to tear up the mountain tomorrow."

"Right."

"You never did mention why you called."

Hesitation. "Oh. Well … just checking in, Miss Holt. To see how your ankle was coming along, and … the file-sorting situation … uh ... been a productive week?" he finished hurriedly.

"Very productive," she lied. "And it's only been two days."

"Really? Two days? Seems longer."

She wished she could hug him through the phone lines. "Time is supposed to fly when you're having fun, Mr. Steele."

"So I've heard. By that measure, Mildred's been here a month already."

"Good thing those airline tickets are open-ended, I guess," Laura laughed. A pause. Then, casually: "Any idea when you might be coming home?"

"Oh, by the weekend, I expect." A few seconds of silence. "Or Friday, maybe, if I can pry Mildred off Sven."

"Don't hurry back on my account," she said.

"Nothing to do with you, Miss Holt. I just hate to keep the office shut down too long. There's a lot of competition out there, you know. We need to stay on top of our game. Got to think of the future of Remington Steele Investigations, after all."

"Worrying about business matters, Mr. Steele? I think the altitude must be affecting your faculties. Perhaps you _had_better come home before you start waxing poetic on the joys of legwork."

"What can I say? I'm devoted to my … career." He yawned. "Good heavens, is it really 2:00 am?"

"1:00 am here. But yes, it is getting late."

"Time flies, Miss Holt," he said softly. "I'll see you Friday … or Thursday night."

"I think there's a red-eye into LAX on Wednesday morning."

"I'll keep that in mind. Good night, Laura."

"Good night, Mr. Steele."

Laura placed the receiver in its cradle and looked at the photo smiling down at her from the bedside table.

"See you soon."

END

_*Since Season 3 episodes are said to have run out of order, I place "Steele In the Chips" immediately after "Gourmet Steele."_


End file.
